The Forest
by Sunnepho
Summary: Though initially an unconnected series, these ficlets will now follow the RH BBC series to its conclusion. Spoilers abound. Mostly character explorations. Will lean heavily toward the Guy and Robin romantic pairing. 22-The walls enclose her.
1. Guy

**Nottingham Forest**  
>Sunnepho (previously Atrophy)<p>

Disclaimer: All characters and settings in the relevant iteration are the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. No profit is made or intended from the writing of this fiction.

This will be something of a repository for any Robin Hood BBC drabbles I might come up with in my first tentative foray out of Xena: Warrior Princess territory. I'm mostly writing these as a sort of exploration of the characters I'm interested in, so forgive me if I've gotten any details wrong, and feel free to yell at me for butchering any characterization. That would be helpful, since I'm still feeling around and trying to get a handle on these characters.

This one is set in season 3.

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><p>1. <strong>Guy<br>**August 22, 2011  
>GuyRobin (Friendship?)

Guy of Gisborne despises the life of the fugitive.

He thinks maybe he has gone soft after the days in the Holy Land, when the sun beat down mercilessly until he thought his skin charred, but it was nothing compared to the heat of the feverish tightness inside him as he clawed at any hope of saving Marian, saving himself.

He does not think of the nightmares now. He focuses on the rocks under his feet, the fetid dark corner he is given to sleep, the irritation and pathetic gratitude towards Allan A'Dale, who will always stand too close when speaking, and the bloody squirrels.

He likes to think that he can go back sometimes. Those are the bad nights, when he wakes up with a foul taste in his mouth and a black rage he cannot swallow.

But then Hood—_Robin_, his traitorous brain whispers sometimes—turns and looks at him with an impatient scowl, and the light hits his face in such a way as to cast his shadowed features in sharp relief.

Hood gestures at him to hurry up, and Guy thinks again that he despises this life. But he finds himself moving quicker.


	2. Invisible

2. **Invisible  
><strong>August 23, 2011  
>Gen<strong><br>**

Standard disclaimer applies.

Eh, I don't like this one much. It started out as something completely different.

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><p>The others doesn't always see him when he's around. Maybe it's because he makes sure he's always around, doing some small, insignificant task such as, oh, putting food in their stomachs.<p>

Maybe it's because he's so good at making himself heard when he wants to be, that when he's quiet, he's so easily forgotten. He thinks that he resents that sometimes.

Ha. Maybe someday, he _will_ be a lord, and he'll be far away down the valley, with chambermaids waiting on his every whim, and _then_ they will miss his cooking.

Of course, sometimes, there were moments like this, too, when Robin sits alone, looking up at the moon hanging about the trees like a fat cake, quiet and almost serene, and he shares in this, because Robin does not see him.

He turns to go back to bed silently because Robin is probably thinking about Marian, and it wouldn't be right to disturb the scene. He thinks it will ripple and smudge out like a reflection on still waters.

But then he hears Robin's voice.

"Much, what are you doing over there? Come sit with me."


	3. Victory

3. **Victory**  
>August 23, 2011<br>Guy/Robin

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><p>Their swords are discarded somewhere on the forest floor, most probably kicked under a pile of mouldering leaves.<p>

This is how Guy likes Robin best, blazing eyes and wild rage, throwing himself entirely into his punches and not caring if he takes a hit in return because it's worth it, just to feel the crack of knuckles against skin and bone.

It will hurt later, Guy knows. When the euphoria of the fight has worn off. Now, though, he bares his teeth, and he cannot think for the movement.

He thinks he is losing, though. Robin has shoved him back and the rough bark of a tree is digging into his spine.

Guy dodges so that the next punch grazes his cheek and leaves a stinging scrape in its wake, he twists his fingers into Robin's shirt, and he thinks he has bruised his teeth with the force they clack against Robin's.

Hot blood fills his mouth. Someone has split a lip, and he is not sure who.

He presses forward. He feels Robin's shoulders loosen just a bit under his grip, and there is a sense of triumph.

Then he is on his back, looking up at the cloudless sky through the treetops, and blood is dripping from his nose, which he thinks may be broken. Robin is nowhere in sight, and he grins.

The next time, when Robin stands above him from his lofty high ground, bow in hand and mocking smile on face, he lets his eyes drift closed just a bit. He gives his most glorious smirk, and Robin glares at him, white-knuckled with fury, before vanishing into the woods.

He is not too big of a man to savour the small victories.


	4. Red

4. **Red  
><strong>September 4, 2011  
>RobinMarian, and a tiny bit of Robin-will-deny-it-with-his-last-breath but visible if you squint through slash goggles Robin/Guy.

Disclaimers still apply.

Bit of a season 1 episode 1 AU, because random gratuitous makeout moment was_ weird_.

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><p>They are not home yet, but Robin remembers the shortcut after they have made camp, and he goes to Knighton Hall first. He does not tell Much, and he feels like a crook, stealing away in the night. He must go pay his respects to the Sheriff, of course. It is only right. Why, King Richard would want him to determine the state of Nottingham.<p>

His justifications sound weaker with every step he takes, but the lights in the windows glow warmly into the dark, and he cannot bring himself to care.

He sees movement in the hall, and he grins, sidling over to the window and peering inside. He sees her, and he feels something inside of him unfurl a sweet tendril. So she has not married. Robin's smile freezes, then, and his breath feels like solid blocks rattling in his lungs.

Guy of Gisborne stands in Marian's home, his arms crossed tightly to his chest as if he is restraining himself from touching, taking. Marian must have said something to him, because he looks down, chuckles, and the sound fills the room, heavily intrusive. When he glances up again, a soft smile is curving his lips, and Robin feels it like a punch to the gut.

He cannot help it; he throws himself away from the window and runs and runs.

He is angry all the next day, although he can tell Much is trying not to notice. He was stupid to think that Marian may—would—wait, he knows this, but the anger does not abate. It tastes of tin, he thinks to himself idly, and it is red as blood.

If he is honest with himself, though, it is the smile that lingers in his mind, no matter how he tries to scratch it away from his eyes, and that sets a cold lump of fear in his belly that only dissipates when he smothers it with hot rage.

Marian had once told him that he was stupid when he was angry. When the girl, Sarah, pulls him to her, and he wound up so tight inside he thinks a sudden movement will snap him in half, he growls, and he knows it is true. He closes his eyes and lets the red wash over him.

He cannot help but go see again, when the itch to rub salt on the wound becomes too strong, and he gets an arrow pointed to his face for his troubles. When Much smirks at him knowingly and tells him that she is not married, the pain is as sharp as if she _had_ shot him. He bites his lip hard.


	5. Hood

5. **Hood**  
>November 13, 2011<br>Robin/Guy pre-slash.

Disclaimer still applies.

Premise is... I'm not sure. Guy and the RH gang were maybe trying to hammer out the details for a collaboration. Maybe Guy is worried about Marian's safety, and he wants the gang to keep an eye on her at a specific event in which Vaisey has her on the front lines, and in exchange, he will turn a blind eye on some kind of activity. I am utterly, utterly lazy about backstory.

Dedicated to my brother, whose 17th birthday is today, although he has probably never heard of Robin Hood BBC. Super special thanks go to LadyKate for the beta.

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><p>Guy feels the jolt of hooves under him first. He flinches, twisting his head about when he opens his eyes and feels the scratch of rough cloth over his face.<p>

"Awake, are you?"

Guy's shoulder pulls painfully as he braces his bound hands on the saddle and levers himself upright. It is Hood's voice he hears, down on the side of the horse walking stolidly under his weight. Guy turns his head toward Hood, but of course he sees nothing but a muted sliver of light that worms its way through the blindfold.

Guy shifts himself in the saddle and grunts.

"We're almost at the edge of the forest. I shall untie you before then, and you can go your merry way."

Hood's voice is difficult to read as ever, sharp in its cheerfulness.

"What hit me?" Guy asks. His throat feels choked with dust.

Hood snorts. "You should not have said what you did to John."

Guy pauses to think about this, and the hammering in his head localises to a throbbing knot behind his ear. He grunts again. "Deal's off, then?"

"That it is."

Guy sighs.

Hood is silent for a time, and the sound of hooves becomes crisper. The road is well-packed here. They are close to a populated area.

"You're awfully meek for being bound and blindfolded," Hood says suddenly. "I should have thought you'd take it poorly."

"Why? I cannot remove these without your notice."

"Are you not concerned that you are at the mercy of an outlaw?"

"Do you mean to imply that Robin Hood would harm an unarmed man?"

"You are hardly an innocent, Gisborne," Hood says roughly, and the smirk touching Guy's lips fades.

He hears voices ahead. Locksley, he thinks. It smells of Locksley.

Guy swings his leg over the saddle and slides down to the ground. The impact jars his knees, and they lock. He hisses, flexing his numb legs, and he begins walking forward.

"You—" Hood begins to speak, anger spiked through his voice, but whatever he wished to say cuts off when Guy puts a foot down and feels nothing but air.

Hood's hands are tight around his arms. The strength of his grip is uneven, and Guy remembers the Robin who relied only on one arm and scowled when told to train his other. Heat permeates Guy's skin where he touches.

Guy takes in a breath. "Robin Hood to the rescue," he says snidely. His voice is perhaps shakier than he intended, but he blames the blow to the head.

There is a press of cold to his wrists, and the rope falls free.

"Just go," Hood snaps.

Guy is alone when he pulls off the blindfold.


	6. Thumbs

6. **Thumbs  
><strong>February 13, 2012  
>Gen - kind of random<p>

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Huge thanks go to LadyKate, who will graciously make time for silly ficlets.

Set series one, episode two. Let's see how far I can push that cliché perverse dungeon master.

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><p>When Robin of Locksley is dragged into his dungeons, he cannot believe his luck. To be sure, there are smiling, pretty words coming from the pretty mouth, but he does not care. Oh no, it is the noise Robin of Locksley makes when he drives his keys into Robin's belly he hears. It sings, whispers notes of anticipation.<p>

He stays at his post until the Sheriff is gone. He doesn't mind the Sheriff, really. Man of his tastes. But he knows the Sheriff thinks the end result is the goal.

He stands in front of the cell now, watching Robin of Locksley pull himself up by the bars over the single patch of moonlight. It casts the shift of muscles slithering over his back into sharp relief.

He watches, and he lets the smile spread over his lips. He cannot damage the face, he thinks. The Sheriff wants to see it bulge and distort in the morning. No matter, he has no interest in the face. The body is the instrument and he the master player, knowing precisely at which points to touch. Here, in his composition studio, he performs.

It is a feast for each sense, his art. He lingers and sculpts, weaving a piece of contrasts. Light and dark, dry and wet, smooth and raw, musk and metal, scream and silence. He knows them all.

"What are you grinning at?"

Robin of Locksley is standing before him now, hands flat on straight hips. He cannot see the eyes through the bars, but the pretty smile is there on those same pretty lips.

When he answers, it is languid. "The simple pleasures that I'm to extract from your body. Maybe I'll start with the thumbs, my lovely."

"What, not going to wine and dine me first?" Robin of Locksley leans forward and looks at him through lowered lashes. "I don't care what the guards said; I do have standards."

He scowls, and he turns away from the smile.

No, they don't understand his art.


	7. An Unlikely Conversation

7. **An Unlikely Conversation**  
>March 3, 2012<br>Gen - set in S1E03, _Who Shot the Sheriff?_

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

... Don't ask. We will shortly return to your regular programming schedule.

Here's to the wonderful LadyKate, for making these things palatable.

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><p>"I mean, I haven't had a square meal in weeks, and he just goes and gives away all our food. There was <em>pork<em>. You cannot truly appreciate pork until you've had squirrel stew for five days straight. But no, he wants to be _loved_." Much pauses and looks blearily over at his companion. "Here, that smells foul. What are you drinking?"

"Not sure," Guy says, hunching over in his stool to sniff at his tankard. "Want one? I'll flag the barman down, shall I?"

"No, no, I cannot possibly. Money troubles, you know, what with being an outlaw and all."

Guy waves the man over anyway. "Not to worry. It's on me."

"Oh, well, thank you." Much nods his heavy head delicately. He wonders how many drinks Guy has already bought him. "You know, you're not such a bad man." He leaves out the Sheriff's gofer part instinctively.

Guy snorts. "You're about the only person who's ever said that," he says. "Not like those peasants. I give them kindness and sympathy when their hero turns against them, and not a word of gratitude."

"Well, they can't, right? No tongues."

Guy waves a hand. "No, not those peasants. The other ones. I mean, look how much work I've done for them, keeping the law. I have laboured tirelessly, and when all's said and done, do I not deserve a little love, as well? But no, they _flinch_."

Much watches Guy fume for a moment. He is good at giving advice, at least. "Perhaps it would help if you stopped calling them peasants?"

"What, and learn their names?" Guy peers at him. "Is that how Robin does it? Calls them by name?"

"I think there's a bit more—"

"Very well. I will find out their names."

Much looks at Guy. "Uh. Well, it's a start."


	8. Heroic

8. **Heroic**  
>April 18, 2012<br>A hint of Guy/Robin - S1E04 -_ Parent Hood_

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

You've probably noticed that I'm working my way through the series by now. This is simply the product of a rewatch, and I'm grateful to everyone along for the ride.

Cheers and thanks to LadyKate!

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><p>Guy does not notice that Annie is gone until the Sheriff grins at him and comments on the lack of kitchen stench.<p>

She could not have stayed, in any case.

He has not seen Marian, either, but he's grateful for that. He still cannot close his eyes for the sound of shears rasping in his head, and the taste of futility burning his throat.

Guy has never claimed to be a hero.

He cannot explain the surge of rage he feels, though, when he next sees the outlaws. They are laughing, comfortable hands on shoulders, and they laugh all the harder when one voice raises in complaint over a shove.

When they wave their farewells and sink into the forest, Guy leaves his soldiers behind and he follows.

It is not long before he can no longer see the outlaws, and a voice shouts out to him.

"Show yourself!"

Robin Hood stands alone with his sword bared, and he seems, just for a moment, surprised to see Guy. Then he shrugs, and he brings his sword up to block Guy's two-handed swing.

Guy grinds his teeth and attacks again.

Here is a man who does not need a hero.


	9. Chain

9. **Chain**  
>April 27, 2012<br>S1E05 -_ Turk Flu  
><em>

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Breaking from the norm a bit for _Turk Flu_.

Thanks as always to LadyKate for invaluable guidance!

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><p>The scent of blood is oddly pervasive.<p>

When Guy wrenches his sword free from the gut of the old miner, he does it with enough force to spray the man's blood over the ground. It falls with soft plops, dropping through the clouds of thick dust that mill around their knees like perplexed livestock.

Wood smoke drifts into his face, stinging his eyes, and he is keenly aware of the stench of dirt-caked sweat, underground gases, and ground iron ore.

The screams die quickly into a choked silence, and Guy glances at the other workers and at the boy straining against the arms clutching his shoulders.

Guy digs out a rag and wipes his blade, where blood and dust have mixed into a gritty film, and the smell overpowers that of the mine.

It is, for a brief moment, nauseating, and Guy tosses the soiled rag to the ground.

He is used to it, he thinks.

The Sheriff turns to him, a faint smile on his lips. "Very good, Gisborne," he says.

Guy dips his head.

The dark eyes flicker over him briefly, but Guy knows precisely how much his master sees.


	10. Home

10. **Home  
><strong>April 27, 2012  
>S1E05 -<em> Turk Flu<em>**_  
><em>**

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

So yeah, second one for this episode, and this one is much lighter. I've been focussing on Guy a lot recently, but I adore the outlaws and their odd little family to bits, too. Sorry for the multi-chapter spam.

Thanks as always to LadyKate for invaluable guidance!

* * *

><p>When Djaq wakes, it is pitch dark. She realizes, a moment later, that it is the absence of sound that is jarring.<p>

England is damp, and the dense air does not sound like home.

In this specific case, though, the sound she has been hearing throughout most of the night is unrelated to the sporadic pangs of homesickness in her chest. Allan-a-Dale is no longer dry heaving.

Djaq picks her way over the rocks embedded in the hill that the outlaws' camp cuts into.

Allan is leaning against the wooden beam at his back as if it is the only thing keeping him from sprawling over the ground, and his head lolls back as he looks up at her.

She pulls her mouth into a sympathetic grimace. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

He stares at her for a while. "Like I've been run over by a cart." His voice is a hoarse croak.

"Do not worry. You will live."

"Pity."

Djaq puts a ladleful of water at Allan's mouth, tilting it so that he is forced to sip slowly. "I have not had a chance to thank you," she says. "You placed yourself in a dangerous position for strangers."

Allan only grunts, wiping his mouth.

"It is a pity that you did not listen and swallowed the herb," she finishes with a grin.

"Oi—"

"Really!" It is Much's voice that interrupts vehemently in the dark. "The sound of you being sick day in and day out has put all the rest of us off our food as well!"

"I thought you were still fasting?" Will Scarlett calls from further in the hollow.

"I—Of course! I was simply concerned for the rest of you!" Much says over the rumble of Little John's chuckle.

It is odd, how quickly she has gotten used to the bickering. Djaq tips a powdered tea into some more water, and she offers it to Allan. "Drink this," she says. "You have lost a great deal of fluids, and this will recover your strength."

Allan's face scrunches violently, and he shakes his head. "I'm not drinking that."

"I know it smells bad, but it will help settle your stomach."

"Smells absolutely foul."

Djaq sighs.

"I think I'm going to be sick from the smell alone."

There is a snort from the beds.

"I'm not being funny, Robin. I'm really going to be sick."

The snickering starts in earnest, and Djaq gives up.

"I'm really not being funny."


	11. Simple

11. **Simple  
><strong>May 17, 2012  
>S1E06 -<em> The Taxman Cometh<em>****_  
><em>****

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Even if it turned out that they deserved it, some of Robin's... coercive tactics against fake taxman and co. struck me as kind of cruel. It's a hard, complicated world in live in, of course. I just think Much might have a more black and white set of morals.

Many thanks and credit for Much-ness go to LadyKate, because honestly, I'm very badly at characters who like to talk.

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><p>Much watches as Robin walks ahead. There is a grin on Robin's lips as he pats his hands together, having distributed the last of the tax money. Much slides his pack further over his shoulder as he looks at Robin's back. There is a bare patch, where the belt that holds Robin's quiver rubs. It will need mending soon.<p>

Robin looks round at him. "Come on then. Keep up." He waits until Much has jogged a few steps forward before he speaks again. "You're quiet."

"Oh." Much blinks, surprised. "Well, it's not like I—"

"Oi!" Robin interrupts. "Don't get defensive on me."

"Am not."

"Much!" Robin says. "My friend! Will you just tell me what's wrong?"

Much fumbles with a frayed edge of the cloth wrapped around his neck. "It's nothing, Master. I was just thinking about Cedric."

"The conman's son?"

"They weren't going to come back for him… were they? I mean, I mean, it didn't _look_ like they were going to come back for him. Although I suppose they had a meeting point and if he missed it—but he didn't know that Djaq wouldn't have killed him when we didn't come back. I mean, _I_ know we don't kill hostages, but _they_ don't that, and, well, that's sort of the whole point of taking hostages in the first place, isn't it?"

Robin has stopped walking now, and he is frowning at Much. "They were professionals. They knew their risks."

Much shrugs. He pulls his hat from his head and then tugs it back over his hair. "I know, Master. It's just that… well, it's a bit like he was expendable. They just went off and left him behind."

"Hey," Robin grips his shoulder tight. "You are not expendable. I would never leave you behind."

"I know that!" Much shakes his head. "It's only that..." He purses his mouth, and he adjusts his pouch again. "I suppose I felt a bit sorry for him, that's all."

"Oh," Robin says. "Yes, I know." He smiles. "That is why I love you."

Much lets his hands fall to his sides as he smiles back.


	12. Family

12. **Family**  
>June 7, 2012<br>S1E07 – _Brothers in Arms_

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Praise and thanks go to wonderful beta LadyKate!

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><p>Allan is holding a piece of the wedding cake, flipping it between his fingers like a trick card, when Robin approaches.<p>

"You keep that up, and you'll have more crumbs than cake," Robin says.

Allan blinks. He opens his mouth, and he closes it again when he looks down at the cake. "Oh. Well." He laughs shortly.

"Don't eat it if you don't want to."

Allan snorts. "You should stop trying to be nice to me, the lot of you. It's odd. I ought to spread the word, tell your villagers that Robin Hood's acting like an old marm." He pauses to grin. "Might make a nice profit."

"Nice? You think I'm being nice?" Robin says. He smiles and puts his hands on his hips. "I just don't like seeing good food go to waste."

"You're not any better at lying than Tom, you know."

"Neither are you." The smile is gone, and when Allan peers up at him again, Robin looks tired.

The flute trills behind him somewhere, and there is a burst of laughter. Someone squeals, and the sound claws over his nerves. Allan looks down at his hands again, and he sees that the cake has finally given up, falling to soft pieces and dropping from the gaps between his fingers.

"We used to love weddings," Allan says, and he falls silent again, twisting his mouth as he thinks.

"Pretty festive occasions," Robin says after a moment.

Allan laughs again. "Festive? Sure, I guess. We didn't bother with that much, since there would always be plenty of guests drinking themselves stupid and forgetful of the money in their pouches. I mean, the next day, who's really sure what he did with it? Nah, weddings were great." Allan leans back, glancing over at the dancers. "Tom liked the cake, though. He'd always nick a great bunch of it for us."

"I'm sorry."

Allan isn't looking at Robin. He doesn't think he wants to, hearing that.

"If we'd gotten there sooner—"

"Stop it, Robin," Allan says, louder than he intended. "He was no good, and that's about the end of it. We don't look back and say what-ifs. It's just sloppy, and regrets are things that make us lose focus and get us killed. All those second chances and last chances. I know better than anyone that they run out. Tom should have known the same. Family is family, and stupid is stupid."

The music has stopped for the moment, and Allan sees Much gesturing toward him and Robin with a greasy piece of some kind of food in his hand. He is saying something, but Little John places a hand on Much's shoulder and shakes his head.

"Still," Robin says suddenly. "I'm sorry."

Allan turns around and looks at Robin, watching with steady eyes, and he snickers. He lets his head hit the tree behind him with a thump as he drops the last of the cake on the ground, and he blinks hard for a moment.


	13. Holy War

13. **Holy War**  
>June 18, 2012<br>S1E08 -_ Tattoo, What Tattoo?_

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

This is such a great episode, but I found I was already really satisfied with a lot of the ways the show handled the issues, so I figured, why not a return to our lovely, self-delusional Guy?

Much thanks go to LadyKate, Guy of Gisborne expert.

* * *

><p>Guy tugs the unfamiliar fabric higher so that it does not bunch about his thighs when he crouches.<p>

The desert cold rips at his cheeks, and he pulls his mask further up and hooks it over his nose. It is difficult to walk still, loose sands under his feet sending him sliding every few metres, and it snags and collects in every crevice he does not wish for sand to enter. They will need to run. He tilts a boot onto its heel, and watches fine grains pour off it. His mouth tastes like dust, but if he wishes to spit again, he must lower the mask once more.

The moon hangs like an enormous biscuit at the horizon, and he ignores the whispers at his back that deem it an ill omen. He knows it is an illusion, brought on by the emptiness of the wasteland.

Every thought occupies his mind but the one on which he must focus.

Stiff armour clings to his shoulders, and the unfamiliar curve of the sword at his hip rests against the ground.

He tugs it loose, just a bit, and moonlight spills over the metal like frost. Guy looks at it; he imagines it red with royal blood. It clatters then, when his hand shakes, and he drops it back into its sheath as he turns his head back to the King's camp.

It is still, fires dimmed to fragile embers.

In that tent, the largest, hung with fur that shines under the moon, sleeps King Richard.

_For England_, he tells himself.

He tightens the mask about his face, and Guy raises his hand to give the signal.


	14. Moves

14. **Moves  
><strong>July 19, 2012  
>S1E09 -<em> A Thing or Two About Loyalty<em>

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Such a lovely dark episode from series one. I of course run wild with it, but it was nice to revisit an old friend.

Cheers and thanks go to wonderful beta and obliging interventionist Ladykate.

* * *

><p>This prisoner has a weedy little scream.<p>

The gaoler sits, leans into the straight back of his chair. The slats round gently into his spine, where the years have worn a smooth patch of polished wood that moulds to his body. He lays an ankle across his knee, and he slides the edge of a small knife over his thumb. It is thin, finely sharp, and it rasps over the ridged callus that pads his finger.

The prisoner's arm shakes, rattling the chains in waves, and a weak whimper drips from his mouth. This one likes to make noise. He bares his teeth and says he'll not give the location of the ledger, he shrieks and yaps through whistling, gasping breaths, and he whines when he lifts up on his tippy toes to relieve pressure from his shoulders where they hang from the hook.

Pretty little puppy with big eyes and shiny curls.

The gaoler raises his head with a polite tip of his chin. "Do you play, Sir Lambert?" he says. "Do you play chess? You must, a gentleman of leisure like you."

Sir Lambert who is no longer a "Sir" moans in his throat.

"My father raised pigs, you see. You wouldn't want to let him catch you with a set of pieces if you weren't no gentleman, no. I am no gentleman, but I taught myself to play." He taps the knife over a knuckle. "It's not the rules that are difficult. The key is anticipation, Sir Lambert."

Clank, clank go the chains.

"My pawns, my bishops," he says, and he waggles his fingers in a wave, sliding his eyes over the gleaming metal hanging from their hooks on the torchlit walls. "I keep them close to. But this—" He smiles again, twisting the knife one way and another to catch the amber light. "This is my queen. She looks simple, simple thing. But she slips in to every direction."

The blade clicks against the tip of his fingernail, steady, soft, and he watches the answering jerks in Sir Lambert's shoulders.

It is part of the play, every step.

He stands, a sigh soft on his tongue, and he sees the prisoner's shoulders squeeze together. He hears the keen, the shake. Sir Lambert has made his move; now it's his turn. He smiles.


	15. Respite

15. **Respite  
><strong>Aug 14, 2012  
>S1E10 -<em> Peace? Off!<em>

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Obligatory ramble because I can't look at a blank page without trying to fill it up: So you know how there's this warning attached to this ficlet series saying that I like pairing up Robin and Guy? Yeah, you didn't think I'd forgotten, did you?

Beta: the ever lovely LadyKate.

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><p>The forest echoes with silence, emptiness pressing down out of the green and seeping up through the rocks under Guy's seat.<p>

The tree coverage is not complete, and a shaft of sunlight lances through the break in the leaves. It is a solid pressure against his thigh, sitting motionless and heavy, burrowing its heat into his skin until he thinks the leather is burning, melting into the slow-roasted meat underneath.

He does not move. The pain is an immediate thing, sitting still under his stare. It will cease when he moves his leg. Not so the rasp of his tenderized throat and the scorch of his bloated eyes.

Guy wishes he could laugh without choking on his coughs. He closes his eyes—a slow scrape of parchment lids—and drops his head back against the strange wooden box the Saracen called a carriage at his back. It thumps hollowly.

The misery caused by the assassins' contraption must have diluted his senses, because he does not hear the footsteps or the voice until their owner is ferreting around the carriage. He can't see the man, and the man cannot see him, evidently, but he recognizes the voice.

"—figure out how this thing is made, we could get some better shelter out here in the winter time. Or at least get some firewood out of it," Robin Hood is muttering to himself, his boots clattering over the hollow frame.

Guy snorts. "Don't bother," he says, "I already tried breaking it down."

There are pounds of steps and a short, scraping skid, and Guy is looking into eyes wide with disbelief up the curved line of a Saracen sword. Guy smirks, slow and deliberate, and he shuts his eyes again.

"You couldn't even dent it," he says dismissively.

Hood does not respond for a long time, and when Guy glances up again, he sees the outlaw has withdrawn his sword and is peering about the shadows.

"What are you doing lounging about out here alone?" Hood says, loudly. "Does your master back at the kennels not expect you home?"

Guy narrows his eyes, dropping a hand to the hilt of his sword where it has been digging into his side. Hood notices, tenses, but suddenly steps back.

"I did not see you with the Sheriff yesterday," Hood says. "What, did you get taken down by the Saracen women while Vaisey ran?" A grin is spreading over his face.

Guy sneers.

Hood shouts with laughter, long and raucous. "You mean Vaisey has kicked you out for being an incompetent guard?" He laughs again, and he struggles to speak. "Trouble in the honeymoon already, Gisborne?"

"I'll let you know during my honeymoon with Marian," Guy snarls.

Hood's jaw clicks as it snaps shut, and Guy bares his teeth at the black look.

He lets the silence grow. In the end, he is not sure what compulsion it is that makes him roll his eyes and open his mouth. "The Sheriff is... unpleasant when he is displeased. I wished to take a ride."

Hood stares at him. "And you came _here_?"

Guy folds his arms, shifts his heat-scorched leg into the shade, and grunts.

"Fine," Hood says eventually. "But next time, you'll have to buy my favour with gifts, too."

Guy watches Hood's back as he walks away, bounding over hollows and upraised roots until he crests the hill and vanishes from view. "An outlaw's favour," he scoffs.

Guy braces his hand on the flat face of the carriage at his back, and he stands.


	16. Act

16. **Act  
><strong>October 10, 2012  
>S1E11 -<em> Dead Man Walking<em>

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

It has been... a very long time. I'm sorry. I'm terribly easy to distract.

Mini-prompt: Allan thinks it's funny, playing captor. Will does not.

Beta: the wonderfully patient LadyKate.

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><p>Will keeps his head low.<p>

Sunlight passes through the leaves above, painting white streaks on the ground under his dusty boots. He thinks he sees the shadows move. It is difficult to determine, as he has stared long enough that the images paint themselves in inverted shades inside his eyes.

His hood dips further over his face and scratches his nose.

A clink. It is the sound of his chains shifting.

The sand in his mouth abrades his gums and coats his tongue with its murky taste.

A clank. Allan is coming around again, patrolling his slow circuit around the tree to which Will and the other prisoners are bound. His borrowed armour does not fit well, and it must chafe, the way Allan is shifting his shoulder. His sword belt rings tinnily as Allan takes another shuffling step.

Will stretches his leg out, a quick shift.

The toe of Allan's boot stings when it thumps into the side of his ankle, and Will suppresses the wince. He keeps his head low, so he does not see, but he hears the scuff and the hissed curse.

"What was that for?" Allan's voice is barely audible under the shouts of soldiers moving cargo, but it is shrill with indignation.

"Keep up your cover," Will murmurs, watching the dust settle.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" Allan grunts.

Will presses his lips together.

"Here, it's not funny."

Will's mouth twitches.


	17. Contrast

17. **Contrast  
><strong>October 10, 2012  
>S1E11 -<em> Dead Man Walking<em>

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

A second very short one for this episode.

Mini-prompt: Marian looked oddly delighted to see Robin in this episode, when he was dressed as a guard and following Guy around. Guy noticed.

Beta: the wonderfully patient LadyKate

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><p>The chill of the night sneaks clammy knuckles in under Guy's palms, and he tucks his hands tighter, crossed over his chest.<p>

He hears the raucous jeers of his men behind him, through the open doors of the stable. Inside, a fire blazes, and the men dampen the hay with their sweat as they hunch over their games.

They laugh again, and the sound rings in Guy's ears.

Right here, at this spot, he can tilt his head up a hair and see the glow of lamplight spill from an upper window.

It is an inviting colour, gold and bright.

The Lady Marian sits in the window, when she stays. She sits there this night, a twist of hair twined around her finger and a curl of a smile on her lips as she looks out.

There is no trace of tension in it, this smile. Not like the quick little thing she wears when she sees him. It curdles his stomach, the mixture of anticipation and fear he feels when he wonders what she sees now. It seizes his throat and wraps frozen chains around his limbs.

His mouth tastes sour.

Guy closes his eyes and pretends that he catches the faint scent of perfume.


	18. Fragile

18. **Fragile  
><strong>November 24, 2012  
>S1E12 - <em>Return of the King<em>

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

I am so sloooooow. Anyway, there were a ton of great moments in this episode, but I settled on one of the first that made a big impression on me when I saw it. May do some of the other ideas. Not going to promise anything because that's just _asking_ for shit to happen.

Beta: the lovely LadyKate

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><p>It is warm, the little bird, its body tucked between Guy's gloved fingers. It is so light that it is difficult to tell that he holds anything at all.<p>

He had been hesitant to reach out his hands, at first, when the Sheriff offered the creature to him, but now he looks down at it.

The breadth of his thumb near covers its head, so he must tilt his own to see it. In the half-light of the Sheriff's quarters, its feathers gleam a mottled green. It has a small stub of a beak. Small, round eyes.

Guy keeps his hands still, cradling the bird. Its legs are folded under its body, feet pressed up against the underside of his knuckles. He feels the faint scrape when its claws close and open against leather.

"Ah, when the King comes," the Sheriff says. He pauses, and then he leans forward. "I might have news for you, there."

Guy pulls his head up. "What news?"

The Sheriff smiles, leaning over to inspect another cage.

Its cage-mates chirp and hop about, but the bird in Guy's hands is silent, twisting its neck to peer around. It has a stupid look upon its face, insofar as Guy is able to tell. He curves his fingers around its belly, where, under its thin skin, he can feel the rapid flutter of the songbird's pulse. It feels like the beat of wings.

"What news?"

It is then, when he raises his voice, that his hands tighten involuntarily, and the bird begins to struggle.

Reflexively, Guy loosens his grip—too much. It slips from his grasp.


	19. Dance

19. **Dance  
><strong>May 16, 2013**  
><strong>S1E13 - _A Clue: No._

I'm... not going to pretend to try and give some sort of excuse.

Thanks go to wonderful beta LadyKate for not firing me. (I am tempted to rename this Eyesex.)

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

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><p>Guy cannot move.<p>

His horse dances a hesitant step under him, thick cords of muscle bunching and smoothing under his thigh. Its hoof clips something that rings. A rock, hidden in the dirt. It kicks up a fountain of dirt and puts the taste of grit into Guy's mouth. It is rank, permeated with the scent of rotted fungus that he has come to associate with the outlaws' forest. His mouth must be open.

And still, he cannot move.

Hood stands before him, still, silent against the grating screams. They filter into his ears, a trodden mud morass that does nothing to break the silence spinning its airless cocoon around him.

Around Hood.

And Hood watches him, curved Saracen sword steady in his hand despite the black rust gore that slides in slow increments down the blade before dribbling over the hilt and slicking its way through the gaps between his fingers. He stares, ignoring the fingers of blood that stroke down his cheek from the force with which he ran that blade through Guy's soldier. A wax effigy running, left too long in the sun.

Guy cannot move, fixed in place on his anxious mount as Hood's eyes follow him. He expects desperation to win the reckless fight. He expects anger, rage at the infiltration of his territory. He expects pride, that pathetic blind faith in King and Country.

He does not expect to see death, corpse-stiff in Hood's eyes.

The arrow comes so close that the wind of its passage whips Guy's face.


	20. Laundry

20. **Laundry  
><strong>May 16, 2013  
>S1E13 - <em>A Clue: No.<em>

The previous ficlet was the one I wanted to write. This is the one I _had_ to.

Beta'd by the awesomely patient LadyKate.

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

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><p>Much brings his shirt up to his nose and sniffs. It drips over his fingers, water sloughing from the rough fabric and tickling its way up his arms before rolling off his elbow at a strange angle. The sound of the water dropping back into the stream is drowned out by the rushing of the current flowing over rock.<p>

He makes a face, crinkling his nose.

It still smells like pond.

It is not an unfamiliar smell, given how often he'd fallen into Locksley pond as a child, but it is still unpleasant. He knows from experience that it lingers for days on end.

He shoves the shirt back under water and begins to scrub again.

Much does not hear the movement behind him until the voice makes him jump.

"Much."

He does not need to turn and look to know that Robin stands behind him, lip between his teeth and brows furrowed tightly. It's in his voice, really.

Much pulls out the shirt and readjusts his grip before dunking it again. "Great victory today, wasn't it, Master? Haha! The _look_ on the Sheriff's face when he realized just what had happened! He dropped his dagger entirely when I pushed his arm off, you know. I thought he was going to bust his guts, how much he was screaming. And then—"

"Marian told me what you did."

Much bites the inside of his cheek.

"Much, I'm—"

"It's quite alright, Master. Just doing my duty. Like always. You know, if I was paid anything near the wages I ought to earn, Master—"

"Much." This interruption is louder. "Don't call me that. Call me Robin."

Much stands, ignoring the water pouring out of his shirt into the rest of his clothes. He flaps it futilely before bundling it up.

"Well, goodnight, Master."


	21. Dual

21. **Dual  
><strong>September 2, 2013  
>S2E01 - <em>Sister Hood.<em>

It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm... sorry, really.

Huge thanks to LadyKate for catching all my continuity mistakes and not giving up on me. And for turning me into one of those people who can't help but try to reconcile Guy's horrible behaviour with the image I have of him in my head.

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are still the property of Tiger Aspect and BBC. This fiction is written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

><p>At times, Guy is certain that there are two of him.<p>

They share the same head. Same eyes. Same nostrils. They see the same things, touch the same things, but it is not the same in the end, because there are two of him.

One is the rage. Black-red like blood that oozes from the broken corpse of trampled pride. It's the screams and snarls that grind their way past his lips when he slams the curved Saracen bow into Hood's gut. It's the black malice that curves his mouth when true terror touches the eyes of Hood's man for the first time.

And the other watches from the back. Mute. Motionless.

But it is master of his dreams, and at night, he smells the smoke, acrid and choking on his tongue, as Marian's house burns. At night, he sees her face, bright and upraised as she turns her back to him. One step. Two steps. And she is gone. Like the smoke that stings his eyes.

Smoke. Marian. At night, again and again, until he cannot see one without smelling the other. Marian and smoke. The other him stretches out the night until it lasts days, weeks—years.

And so Guy bares his teeth, and he swings the bow into Hood's body again.


	22. Cage

22. **Cage  
><strong>November 11, 2013  
>S2E02 - <em>Booby and the Beast<em>

Thank you to LadyKate for her endless brilliance and patience. Thank you to everyone else for being awesome. I'm not giving up on this! It _will_ be finished.

* * *

><p>The tapping at her window comes when Marian runs her brush through her hair and it catches in a snarl. She grimaces. They come again, light raps that cannot disguise their urgency in the way the space between each knock shortens. She presses her lips together. One day. He has lasted longer than she had expected.<p>

He is in mid-knock when she pulls open the shutters, and he looks noticeably startled for a moment. He leans back, recalls his precarious position, and clutches at the rope fraying against the rough stone. Then, Robin smiles. Small and tight.

She is not surprised. She has ceased to be surprised long ago. There is no one else who would scale a hundred hands of solid stone in the dark of the night. Marian braces an arm against the shutter, lifts her brows, and waits.

It does not take long.

"You looked nice yesterday," he says lightly.

She lets the corners of her mouth curl. "So did you. You should wear that hat more often."

Robin laughs, but it dies quickly.

"Marian—"

"I—"

They both stop. There is an awkward moment when she waits for Robin to continue, and he does the same.

Finally, Robin sighs, and his head sinks forward. "I'm sorry, Marian."

Marian cannot help the frown. "What for?" She is unused to this Robin, with eyes dropped to the ground and defeat in his voice.

"The Count told me the details. Why you were with him. What you were going through. And all I did was act like a jealous fool when you were the one all alone."

Marian stares. "I..." and she stops, because she does not know what she intends to say. She closes her eyes, and when she looks up again, she is smiling. "It's alright," she says—

_Well, then pretend. Deception comes easily enough to you._

"I am fine—

_She says no when she means yes._

"After, England needs me, does she not?" She laughs.

Robin glances up, brows knitted together tightly and none of the self-assurance she finds so familiar in his face, and he looks so pained that she reaches out and smooths the pads of her fingertips over the creases above his eyes.

He sighs again, a lighter sound, and he leans forward.

Her palm pressed into his shoulder stops him, and he looks confused for a moment.

Marian makes the curve of her lips mischievous as she says, "I believe I shall turn in for the night. Headache, you know."

Another moment passes before he straightens, shifting so that he is just clinging to the window frame. He gives her a reproving glare, but it is spoiled by the grin tugging at the side of his mouth. There is a flutter of cloth, and then Robin is gone. The rope dangles for a moment, shuddering, and then it too vanishes. Thin moonlight is left in the empty window.

Marian pulls the shutters inwards, and they clatter shut when she leans back against them and closes her eyes.

The walls enclose her, four stacks of chilled stone, but she is almost warm.


End file.
